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Happiness is
by Ola
2nd little note: fictionpress and I seem to be badly miscommunicating, regarding story formating. So this piece did not turn out the way it looked in Word. Hopefully, the different spacing and alignments will still make sense.
Happiness and I aren’t strangers. Neither are we best friends. We do not frequent each other every day, but we make sure not to pass each other on the street without a wave or a smile. We do not have a perfect relationship but we do not quit working it out when bumps appear on the road.
Happiness isn’t something you find one day on the side of the road.
I had been driving north on I-95 for the past three hours. Massachusetts was long gone, the leafy trees had given way to dark pines, and soft hills had become craggy mountains. But no matter how fast and far I drove, I could not escape the rain. Giant drops splattered on the windshield and hammered on the rooftop. Whatever rain hit the pavement sprayed upward into a thick mist, obscuring the surrounding cars from sight. I knew they were there, I could hear the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, and I could make out vague dark shapes on either sides of me, but even the headlights didn’t help much a few feet away. The other cars were driving too slowly on the left lane in front of me, and frustrated me more than they should have any reason to do so; I had three hundred more miles to ride, I couldn’t hear the radio above all that din, and I was far too tense. My shoulders hurt and my eyes felt strained. And so was my bladder. But there was no rest station in sight. I didn’t fancy stopping on the side of the road to relieve myself behind a bush while cold rain showered my butt. In time with the blaring of the music that I couldn’t hear enough to recognize, a green road sign loomed out of the mist, visible long enough to say ‘next rest stop, three miles’ before I drove past it. A few minutes later, I ran out of the car, yanked open the door of a blue portable toilet, took a deep breath and stepped out of the rain. Nature’s call was answered quickly, and I ran out again to gulp in another breath of fresh air. My eyes were set on the car, my finger was ready to press the remote to open the door, and my legs made quick work of the few feet that separated me from dryness. And that’s when I saw them. A small bunch of flowers. Bright blue, with tiny petals, they grew out of a crack in the cement and valiantly faced the rain and the wind. I forgot the water plastering my hair to my forehead, I forgot the cold rivulets sliding down my neck, behind my too thin shirt. I knelt by their side and sheltered them with my hands for a while. Then I picked one up, stuck it in between the air vents above the car radio, and drove away with a smile.
Happiness isn’t just the vivid blue of a summer sky, the shimmering green of a pair of eyes, the dark red of a winter coat in a sea of gray, the bright yellow of a daffodil, or the pale silver of moonlight on a face.
Where is the peace to appreciate it, the love that shines from them, the person it belongs to, the green meadow in which it grows, or the lover it caresses?
“I don’t know what it is.”
“What is?”
“Happiness.”
“What is it for you?”
“So?”
“…. Alex?”
“Shhh. I’m still thinking.”
Happiness isn’t the mail that brings the fifteenth rejection letter from medical school.
I heard the postman’s little car as it stopped and drove away, stopped and drove away again. Two mail boxes away from ours. As soon as it passed our house, I ran down the driveway, jumped from one barefoot to the other to keep them off the cold sidewalk the time it took to open the mailbox, then ran back into the house, flipping through the envelops on the way. Two were for me. Sadly, a too-thin one from Georgetown Medical School, and one just as thin from the Hartford hospital. I was rejected from the first, but found “Dear Ola, I am pleased to offer you a position as a clinical research assistant with doctor… … you can start upon graduation” in the second. My feet and I sank into the warmth of the carpet with a happy sigh.
Happiness isn’t just a cookie straight out of the oven, the smell of roasted coffee in the morning, the frothiness of hot chocolate on a winter day, or a favorite music playing in the car.
Where is the glass of milk, the daily newspaper and the time to read it, the favorite mug from which to drink it, the warm socks to warm cold feet, the smooth road with no accidents?
“A free ticket to the Bahamas. Lounging on a sunny beach. Not too warm though; a bit breezy. Oh, and a Strawberry margarita served by a cute, shirtless waiter.”
“Excuse me?”
“Happiness. You asked me what it was for me.”
“Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Thaaaanks!”
Happiness isn’t something you can steal from others.
We were sitting side by side on the hearth, he with his feet stretched out in front of him, me with mine tucked to my chest. Despite the day’s heat, the night had turned chilly and we lit up a fire, to keep the cold at bay, to keep the darkness away, to make us stay awake a little longer, long into the morning hours. We talked softly, aware of the sleeping family in the rooms upstairs. Despite the late hour and the yawning that punctuated our sentences, we felt no need to sleep. We just looked at the fire. Well, he did. I looked at him. He was more captivating to me than the dancing of the flames, more alluring than its warmth. And so much more frustrating. His eyes were kept staring into the depths of the fireplace, his hands were left by his sides, supporting his weight as he leaned back, his words were kept on safe subjects. And I was kept at his side, unable to leave, and incapable to act out of the safety of the circumstances. Suddenly, he turned around to look at me, an eyebrow raised, waiting for an answer to a question that I haven’t heard. Without thinking too long, I leaned into him and pressed my lips to the corner of his. I don’t know whether the reply he received was what he was looking for…but then his lips stretched up into a grin and he stole my kiss back.
I did not use to know that this kind of love could make you happy; I did not use to know that I could not always find happiness in a sunny Tuesday morning.
Do you not know what your happiness is? Do you not know it’s different for everybody? Do you not know your happiness is mine? Do you not know I do not know too much about it until it comes my way?
“Do you really want to go to the Bahamas?”
“Naaaa… It would get boring pretty quickly. What would I do all day on a beach by myself? I would become too roasted to go outside, too drunk to walk straight –and get a constant hangover headache to add to my misery-, and too lonely to be happy.”
“Exactly. That’s a good way to think. You don’t need to go to the other side of the world to be happy. Take me for instance. I would be happy if this rain stopped, if my final exam was canceled, well, even if it was postponed. I would be happy if a stranger passing me on the street told me ‘hi, have a wonderful day,’ if I held your hand on the way to class, if you stopped s…. Alex, are you listening to me?”
“No. I’m thinking about the Bahamas.”
“Still?”
“Yeah. I would be happy if you went with me.”
Happiness isn’t something with which you can make bets.
It was a highway. A five-lane highway. We were not driving slowly. We were not driving at all! We were effectively stuck in a traffic jam, wedged bumper to bumper for as far as I could see before the road curved away. It was going to be a long wait, and I had skipped lunch, thinking the trip would take half an hour, tops. At least the car had air-conditioning, otherwise, I would be complaining about the unbearable heat as well. Maybe I should just get out and start walking, in the chance that I would arrive to my destination faster that way, although come to think of it, I had no idea how to get there. With a sigh, I looked at my friend. What was it with us always being stuck together in a car? At least it gave us time to talk. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Let’s make a bet.” “What kind of bet?” he asked, turning my way since he didn’t have to keep his eyes on the road. “Er, how long it will take to get home.” “Fine.” He glanced back at the highway, took his foot of the break to let the car role a few meters, and answered “30 minutes.” “35. Wait, 40. No no, 25. Ah fine, 35 minutes.” The clock on the radio read 14:12. As I was busy calculating the time our bets would fall on, the traffic slowly started moving again. Ten minutes later, we branched off onto another highway, one without traffic. I realized that this had not been such a smart bet to make. He was the one driving, he was the one familiar with our surroundings. And he was the one breaking up at least three laws. Speeding, tailgating, and mmm… burning his tires on left turns? At 14:42, flying off the highway ramp, I whooped. “Ha! You lost!” “We have to divide the 5 minutes in between our times, so I get 2 and half more minutes.” Ah right. A few swervings later –at which time I realized there were unfortunately no street lights in this little village- I started counting the seconds after 14:44. At “26” he braked in front of the house, smiling like a little boy. “I won.” “By four seconds. Yeah.” I couldn’t help smiling back. It had been an effective way to stave off traffic boredom, no? At the sound of the squealing tires, my aunt, rather surprised, came out of the house. I jumped out of the car to recount our adventure. “So what did you win?” she asked us at the end. My friend and I looked at each other and dissolved into laughter. We hadn’t thought about that.
There is no hate in happiness, no hidden meanings, no second guessing. There is no pain, no loss, no confusion and no despair.
Happiness does not leave you lonely, broken hearted, cold, or misunderstood. It does not give you bad hair days, a week of rain, a hangover before an interview.
“Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs.”
“Are you still thinking about the Bahamas, or are you reviewing for your psychology final?”
“Neither. According to Maslow, from lowest to highest, the needs for human happiness are physiological well being, safety, love and belonging, esteem, actualization…. I’m stuck on number three.”
Happiness isn’t something that makes you cry.
It was a warm spring day just like any other. That morning, we had driven to his hometown, to walk in the quaint city center, explore the surrounding vineyards, and visit the cathedral that stood there since 1114. Now in the early afternoon, we stood in its shadow and admired the worn frescos above the door for a moment before he took my hand and led me inside. The cool, almost moist interior was a stark contrast to the warm, dry air outside. It was eerily quiet. There was no one else to whisper and break the silence, and no cars driving right outside to rumble and putter away. We slowly circled the inside of the church, walking up the right side by the pews, stopping behind the nave, then returning on the left, toward a little door by the main entrance that I had not noticed upon entering. I glanced at him, but he didn’t say anything, just squeezed my hand and smiled reassuringly before he took out a large metal key and turned the lock. The hallway past the door was even darker than the church itself, and I stayed close to him for fear of stumbling or walking into a wall. His soft voice ghosted next to my ear: “that’s a tunnel. It runs from this church to the old house that used to be the summer retreat of the Kaiser. A long time ago, the house had been renovated into apartments. They are the ones I live in now. When we were younger, my brothers and I used to play down there, under the city, until a priest caught us. There was another tunnel, bifurcating halfway between the house and the church that ran to the other side of the river but it was closed down, for fear of a cave in.” I wondered why he had a key then, and why we were going up instead of down. Not that I wanted to think too much about cryptic little passageways and caving ceilings. But we were in a stairway. Not a tunnel. It weaved upward in tight and narrow steps. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dimness as there were no windows or lights except the ever-present darkness. But he seemed to know his way, so I followed him, my hand still in his. I trusted him. Then he stopped moving, I heard a lock spring open, and I was blinded by sunlight. He gently steered me outside, to what I realized was a terrace. We were right under the roof of the church’s steeple. Two large bells hung from rafters at our back while we faced a breathtaking view of the river, gleaming in between the vineyards. We leaned on the stone parapet and talked, still whispering, as the warm wind blew all around us. And that’s when he asked: “will you marry me?” For a moment, I wondered whether the bells had started ringing, to make me feel this way. Then I nodded, smiled, and started crying while being kissed and tightly embraced in his arms.
Happiness just is.
